


Devil Went Down to Florida

by LittleSixx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Parents, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Deal with a Devil, Demon Deals, Demon Moriarty, Family Fluff, Gay Parents, I Blame Tumblr, Inspired by Music, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Parent John Watson, Parent Sherlock, Parenthood, Parentlock, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Song Lyrics, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, devil went down to georgia, dueling violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSixx/pseuds/LittleSixx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years ago, Mr. Hudson got himself sentenced to death in Florida. Mycroft regales young William Holmes with the tale of his father's dealings in the sunshine state.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil Went Down to Florida

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet is based on the song, "Devil Went Down to Georgia." No beta or anything, not much plot, but a bit of sentimental Mycroft. It's quite short, much shorter than I'm used to. Just a bit of Sunday fluff. Enjoy!

“Daddy! I want to hear a story!” William begged, tugging on his father’s pant leg. While the six-year-old had Sherlock’s cutting cheekbones and dark hair, he possessed all of John’s tenacity. John picked up his son and brushed the hair from his eyes. He shot a glance at Sherlock then smiled.

“What about?”

“Tell me about Florida!” William said excitedly. “Mrs. Hudson always talks about Florida but stops as soon as I enter. I want to know!”

“It’s almost time for bed.” John prodded. Sherlock was already out the door.

“Daddy!”

“Mycroft?” John raised an eyebrow and wordlessly asked the figure standing by the window if he would oblige. He nodded and John sighed.

“You know how Uncle Mycroft loves his fairy tales.” John said, plopping William into a chair. The young boy hugged the well-aged union jack pillow to his chest and smiled as Mycroft took Sherlock’s seat across from him. He set his umbrella off to the side.

“One story then off to bed, Will. I mean it!”

“Are you and father going to solve a case?”

“We’re going to try. Or I’m gonna try and he’ll scold me for missing the obvious.” John chuckled. “Love you.” He muttered, kissing the boy atop the head and turning to leave. “One story!” He shouted over his shoulder. William turned to face Mycroft.

“Hello, little nephew.” The man said, smiling tightly as only he was capable.

“Uncle Mycroft.” The boy returned curtly.

“You wish to know about Sherlock’s activities in Florida?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is of top-secret classification.”

“Uncle Mycroft!” William whined. “Please!”

“I shall tell you anyway, but you must promise to never tell another soul.”

“I promise.”

“Yes, the devil is in the details.”

“Father says the devil is a social construct dreamt up by first-century men trying to oppress those not in clergy work.”

“The modern concept derives from the work of Dante, but that story is best saved for a later date.”

“Florida.” William demanded. Mycroft shifted in his seat and his eyes shone such that William wondered if Mycroft often hid this part of himself from the British government. His voice took on a deeper, more narrative tone. William leaned forward, expectantly, as Mycroft began the tale:

 

_The devil went down to Florida, looking for a soul to steal._

_He was inclined for a soul refined, to make one hell of a deal._

_He came across a young man sawing on a violin and playing it hot._

_The devil stood upon nothing good and said, “Angel, let me tell you what.”_

~

Popular culture would be so disappointed. The devil, it seemed, wore Westwood.

Sherlock Holmes was investigating a particularly nasty murder outside Miami. Mr. Hudson was arrested and charged, but the evidence was sketchy at best. Hinging on ballistics and his lack of alibi; _hardly an open-and-shut case in the eyes of a jury._

Sherlock examined the body--legally, of course. Mycroft pulled some strings, yet Sherlock was unable to glean any new information. _Links are missing. Something is missing, there is a clue, there has to be._

He stood in a back alley where the murder took place. No more than six paces wide, the alley stank of garbage and urine. A dank condensation formed on the bricks in the wall of one side. _Recently rained? No, condensation from the air conditioning. Drugs involved, so it had to be somewhere dark and private._ Sherlock observed, but saw nothing. There were no links to be made, but he looked anyway, determined to help the loveable Mrs. Hudson.

Unable to make a connection with the information at the scene, he made for his makeshift flat; a condo two blocks from the murder scene. Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play a dark melody. He coaxed low notes from the strings, drawing them out, interspersing them with painfully shrieking yet pleasurable upper notes.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in.” Sherlock said, not bothering to ask for a name. A figure stepped inside. Sherlock turned. If he was at all surprised none registered on his face. Nearly a head shorter than Sherlock, the man’s aura incited nothing but dread from most mortals. A spider, Sherlock realized, weaving a tangled web to procure souls. He wore a well-pressed suit and dark loafers, accentuated by a silver tie and fox pin.

 _Well-dressed, hair perfectly quaffed, uses product--more likely paste than gel judging by the stiffness. Tinted eyebrows ... gay._ Sherlock deduced. _Stern demeanor, yet playful, certainly not entertaining the notion of an unpleasant outcome from this encounter. Definitely not mortal, then. No firm moral principles, judging by his demonic aura. Ah, there it is. Bored. God’s bastard son is bored._

“James Moriarty. Hi!” He teased. Sherlock continued playing.

“Why are you here?”

“Angel, I’ll tell you what.”

~

_“I may not look it, but I am a violin player, too._

_If you care to take a dare, I’ll make a bet with you._

_You play a good violin, boy, but give daddy his due._

_The information I know against your soul, ‘cause I think I’m better than you.”_

_The man said, “My name’s Sherlock, and it might be a sin,_

_I will take your bet and you shall regret ‘cause I’m the best that’s ever been.”_

~

“Oh, cheeky.” Moriarty teased. “Well, I do like to flirt.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued observing the demon’s movements as a black case appeared on the couch. Inside was the most awe-inspiring violin Sherlock would ever see. Made of a rare black wood, its body formed the shape of a skull. Black bow strings pulled taut over its nose cavity and mouth, Sherlock knew it was something special.

Smoke flew from Moriarty’s fingertips as he uniquely rosined up his bow. He picked up the violin and began to play.

~

_Sherlock must rosin up his bow, and play his fiddle hard._

_‘Cause Hell’s broken loose in Florida, and the Devil deals the cards._

_If  you win, you solve the case with what the Devil knows,_

_But if you lose, the Devil gets your soul._

_The Devil opened up his case and said, “I’ll start this show.”_

_Smoke bloomed from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow._

_He pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss,_

_His melody pulled Sherlock in, sweet as death’s own kiss._

~

When most people think of evil melodies, they think of growling sounds or shrieks. Unpleasantries. Woe are they, for the Devil makes the sweetest music. It was quick, but sharp.

Tangy, Sherlock could feel the adrenaline beginning to course through his veins. Moriarty knew what he liked. His eyes fell closed in bliss, soaking in the orgasmic sensations the Devil coaxed from the strings of his infernal violin. A shudder ran up his spine and he need not open his eyes to see the smile forming on the demon’s face.

~

_Suddenly, the music stopped, and Sherlock’s eyes opened in a rush._

_Moriarty pressed the bow to Sherlock’s lips and darkly whispered, “Shush.”_

_“My pretty pet, do you even want to try?_

_Make it easier for both of us, just hurry up and die.”_

_When the Devil finished, Sherlock said, “You are quite good, demon._

_Sit down in that chair right there and let me show you how it’s done.”_

_Fire on the mountain, run, boys, run!_

_The Devil’s in the house of the rising sun._

_Will Sherlock be damned down below?_

_Molly, will his corpse bite? No, child, no._

~

Moriarty obliged and sat in a chair across the room. Sherlock plucked his bow from where it stood and began to play. Using the adrenaline still fresh in his blood, Sherlock focused on what he knew of Moriarty.

_A storyteller, obviously. No doubt planning to tell this tale many times, should he win. Very up-and-down. Enjoys not being bored. Needs to be interested. Gay, also. Perhaps I should utilize that as he has me ... Ah, yes, he won’t be expecting that. Oh, a master manipulator indeed. Only, I am better._

Sherlock shrugged off his suit jacket and placed it over a couch arm. Out the corner of his eye, he noticed Moriarty eyeing his hands, moving slowly up the long, pale fingers to the callused tips. No doubt wondering how they would feel against his lips.

Sherlock began to make love to his violin. He closed his eyes and coaxed a low series of notes from the strings. Foreplay.

The notes got shorter and more frequent, as Sherlock worked his way up the scale. Then he let loose. An almost New Orleans-esque melody filtered throughout the room. Clearly something new to the demon who sat before him. Suddenly, it changed again. A celtic melody, then. A repeating series of four notes, occasionally switching the octave. The riverdance--native to Moriarty, almost homey.

_Ba da dum dadadada da dum, Da da da dah dum dum da dum, da da da da da dum da da dum da da da da._

He slowly coaxed the quickest notes then slowed, notes so low hearing them took effort. The scale again, though more slowly before Sherlock sat his bow upon the couch. He replaced the violin in his case and studied Moriarty, panting. The demon’s hand was on his thigh, fingernails digging into the trousers. A low groan escaped him.

~

_The Devil bowed his head because he knew that he’d been beat._

_He laid a casefile on the ground at Sherlock’s feet._

_Sherlock said, “James, just come on back if you ever wish to try again._

_‘Cause I told you once, you son of a bitch, I’m the best there’s ever been.”_

_Fire on the mountain, run, boys, run!_

_The devil’s in the house of the rising sun._

_Mr. Hudson’s in the courtroom not letting fear show._

_Well, did the jury bite? No, child, no._

~

Mycroft sat upright and the spark vanished from his eyes. William had discarded the pillow and eagerly leaned forward.

“So her husband died?”

“Yes.” Mycroft said curtly.

“Cool.”

“You are very much like your father.”

“Which one?”

“Both, if I am to be honest.” Mycroft conceded.

“Does that mean I can stay up all night like father?”

“I’m afraid not, little nephew.” Mycroft smiled, genuinely this time. For such a young thing, he was quite relentless. He hoped Sherlock was getting as much as he had given throughout his own childhood. “Off to bed, with you.”

“Did father really meet the devil?” William asked as he approached the foot of the stairs.

“I am afraid he did.” Mycroft said, solemn. “The devil followed him everywhere. Even sat in that very chair.” He said, motioning to Sherlock’s customary seat.

“What about my dad?”

“Your dad, John Watson, is the bravest man I have ever met. When the devil threatened Sherlock, John would do anything to keep him alive. Nearly died a couple times.” Mycroft conceded. But his usual pinched expression returned as he said, “If you express to him any sort of that sentiment on my behalf, I will decline to having made such a gesture and remind him bravery is, by far, the most kind word for stupidity.”

“Yes, Uncle Mycroft.” William said. He laughed and climbed his way upstairs. Mycroft made his way out the door and down the stairs.

“Ah, yes. John Watson. Both the making of my brother and the one who made him more insufferable than ever.” He shouted, “Mrs. Hudson, the young William has turned in and I am out.”

“Hoo hoo!” She cooed from 221A.

“The Devil went down to Florida ...” He sang out the door.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Criticism is always welcome! Feel free to comment or message me at hail-natalia.tumblr.com.


End file.
